


Thirty-eight-point-six

by tacotheshark



Category: My Life in Film
Genre: HIV/AIDS, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:23:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacotheshark/pseuds/tacotheshark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone reacts differently when struck by tragedy. Some people deny, repress the truth. Some come to terms with it fairly easily, even as it continues to eat them up from the inside. Some can overreact; blow it up with theories and scenarios because for whatever reason their person isn’t the sort to leave a thing alone.</p><p>When Jones becomes chronically ill, Art ends up doing all three of these things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty-eight-point-six

They say you’re supposed to feel numb.

But Jones was never one to feel numb.

Blurred, everything is, blurry—the lights that flash and shine around him, nothing to him but swatches of colors, reds and oranges and whites, the honks and beeps of a million cars that barely breach the wall Jones has set up between the rest of the world and himself. He’s built this wall and he wants only to keep it up, or to fold it in, to fold in on himself or curl up into a ball, a mess, because every breath is a struggle as his small body shakes with sobs and he can barely keep his head up. His hands are on the steering wheel—shaking, sloppy fingers—he knows he’s in no condition to drive. _“Sweetie,”_ the nurse had said—so sweet, she was, Jones almost misses her already. _“Sweetie, can I call someone for you? A cab?”_ Jones had politely declined—no, thank you, because that would take time and he wants nothing more than to get home to his best friend, to the flat they share. His best friend, with whom he’s shared so much and with whom he’s got to share this with so that they can figure it all out together.

Horns continue to assault him, to shout at him from either side and it’s a terrible idea, he knows, but he can drive, he knows what he’s doing. He just needs to get home.

It doesn’t take long, but every second feels like an hour and each of these hours feels like a void, sucking away Jones’ time and energy and life by the second. He pulls up to the flat, get out of his car, and closes the door with a loud slam, feeling so incredibly tiny next to his car which has never felt so big and the world which has never felt so treacherous. He pockets his keys, sniffling as he walks along the pavement.

He’s stopped crying, he thinks. For the most part. Or, just until he runs into his elderly neighbor as she walks out and he walks in and, “Jones!” she says, eyes absolutely glowing with concern and curiosity, “Dear, what’s wrong?”

He tries to grin, to reassure her when he can’t even reassure himself, but it manifests as a choked sob and he feels like he’s going to collapse. “He… hello, Mary.” He tries to sound calm, collected, but he can’t possibly when he’s sure the water building up behind his eyelids is straight from a boiling kettle, threatening to melt the rest of his body which he’s suddenly found out is soft ice. He doesn’t want to speak—there’s an air bubble in the ice walls of his throat, empty, cold, and dry—but Mary looks at him, wants to know, wants to help. She cannot, and he sighs, almost surprised when his breath is not cold smoke. “It’s… personal. Very personal. I’d really like to speak to Art now, if you don’t mind. I’m. I’m sorry.”

Mary grins sympathetically, comforting in a way that only an old woman can be. “Don’t be sorry for a thing.”

Silence settles when Jones does not say a thing, only smiles slightly and shyly and mostly sadly, and neither does Mary. Quietly, hesitantly, Jones croaks, “Mary?”, holding his wavering arms out with an unsure, crooked mouth—and Mary welcomes Jones into her arms, letting him sob and shake against her shoulder, letting him hold close one of the people he already imagines he will miss if he can feel at all. “Thank you,” he mutters, as he pulls away and smiles once again, though he’s sure his mouth will crack and melt right off if he keeps it up.

“Go talk to Art,” Mary says, a hand on Jones’ shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll feel a lot better.” And she leaves, off on her own way, leaving Jones alone in the middle of the building in which he’s sure to find Art, in which he’s sure to pour his heart and guts and crumble into shards. He’s already begun to, he thinks; his bones feel brittle, his skin feels rough. He gulps, swallowing down giant pearls of ice that make his throat choke and bulge. With weak, trembling legs, he begins to climb the stairs that lead up to his and Art’s flat.

It’s as if gravity is trying to pull him down, tumbling down the stairs, down and out the door and away, and suddenly he’s insufficient to fight it. Suddenly, he’s on a different planet, one with the gravitational pull of a million earths, and each step is a struggle as he tries to keep himself from panicking.

At the top, he finds himself, with more fear than ever of slipping and falling backwards. The door to his flat is just a few meters away looking more menacing than ever it has, and the ice is in Jones’ stomach, churning and chilling him to the bone.

Another gulp, a step, and the floor under his shoes is ice as well. He hopes he doesn’t break it. Hopes he doesn’t fall.

He fishes his keys from his pocket, fingers fumbling, almost numb to the touch, and metal scrapes against metal as he tries to fit the key into the lock. The door creaks open, with Jones leaning all his weight on the doorknob as he pushes it. “Art?” He pauses, wet, warm eyes darting about the flat, hoping he doesn’t sound too wrecked.

“In your room,” comes the reply, and Jones gives a small nod for himself. He closes the door slowly behind him, trying not to make a sound, and he isn’t quite sure why.

Being inside his own flat is calming, as calming as anything can be to Jones now. Familiar, when he hangs his keys up on the rack, easy, when he crosses the floor and feels almost normal.

Licking his lips and slipping his eyes shut for a moment in a thought that doesn’t fully come, he opens the door to his room and in it he sees Art, back against the wall and eyes on the television. He tries to say something but all that comes from his throat is another small sob, and he’s sure if he hadn’t his hand on the doorknob he would by now be on the floor. In the second Art looks up to see Jones in the doorway—Jones’ wide, shining eyes, his flushed, tear-streaked face—the look in his eyes shifts visibly from relaxed to alarmed and he sputters, “Jones! What the hell happened to you?” Scrambling to sit on the edge of the bed, he looks up and in his gray-green eyes, Jones thinks he sees anger.

Funny, he thinks someone’s done all this to Jones, thinks Jones hasn’t done it all to himself.

Jones closes the door and sits on the bed, hands in his lap, next to his friend. “Found something out today,” he mutters with a small, resigned shrug.

Art’s brow is knitted in confusion for just a moment before concern takes over and his stare into Jones’ eyes is intense, drawing. Jones could disappear into it, he thinks. He could be drawn into and captured in Art’s eyes like he’s been so many times when Art’s managed to convince him to join him in doing something absurd. Art’s so hard to tell ‘no.’ “And what’s that?”

And Jones finds himself flustered because, what is he to say? “Well, you—you know that I went to get a test so I could give blood, yeah?” He stops there and Art nods, panic flashing in his eyes as he starts to consider and to think up his own theories. Jones wants to tell him but the words don’t come—they’re stuck in his throat, just below the farthest he can reach. He swallows, and they’re pushed further down before hitting a spring and bouncing back up and he can’t catch them as they fly past his lips—“I’ve got HIV.”

 

The air in the room turns sober, and all the water and blood in Art’s body comes to a heated still. “Wh… what.” He’s been struck in the chest, pressure reverberating throughout his head and torso, impact turning him hard, to stone, an unmoving statue. He isn’t asking a question, just sputtering out what’s in his mind in his crushed, flattened voice.

And he’s angry; he finds himself stirring with a quiet rage that makes his stomach drop and his chest hurt, but not at Jones, never at Jones. He finds himself furious with, victimized by, his own ears—why are they telling him such horrible things? Why, when they can’t possibly be true? He’ll plug them up, that’s what he’ll do, because how is he to possibly go on if they insist on plaguing him with things like _this,_ things like the possibility Jones _dying,_ things that can lock him up and drive him down into the ground so that he’ll never resurface and feel alright again?

But it’s true, it’s got to be, because Jones is saying it again, muttering and whimpering it like he can’t stop, like if he says it enough it will come out of his mouth and out of the rest of his body. “HIV, Art.” Tears peak in the corners of Jones’ eyes and he leans forward, squeezing his eyelids shut and shaking his troubled head. “I’m going to die.”

“No,” Art can only mutter, and again, “no.” His eyes sting, fixed on the wall though he looks at nothing, and he can’t move them, can’t move himself. All he can do is try to process it, run it through his mind like he would a script through his typewriter, and it doesn’t make _sense._ None of it makes sense—not the crying boy sitting and shaking next to him, whose tears he can almost feel radiating through the air and warming his entire body; not what he’s just _said, Art, I’ve got HIV, Art, I’m going to die;_ Art, don’t think, don’t try to make sense of it, and he can’t—so he doesn’t, so he launches himself at Jones with open arms and hugs Jones’ tiny body close, feels Jones’ tears seeping through his shirt’s button holes, Jones’ arms wrapping around his waist and squeezing, Jones’ lips and entire face pressed against his chest as Jones sobs and clings to Art like Art is a rescue ship and the rest of the world is a black hole.

“Did… did Beth…?” Art says, quietly, after a moment—he’s got to know, got to know if Beth is going to die as well.

Jones shakes his head frantically against Art’s chest. “No—no, no.” He takes in a breath, pulls in it and it spreads through his entire body and shakes against Art’s. His next breath is a gasp and a sputter of air, and with his hands on Art’s chest he sits up, before bringing them again to his lap, wringing his fingers and looking up nervously. Art keeps a hand on Jones’ shoulder, squeezing gently as if to say, _tell me, you can tell me anything._ Jones shudders, gulps, and says, “Do you remember when Beth broke up with me, and, and I—”

“—you went to stay with your mother, you said.”

“I lied,” Jones sobs, “I’m _sorry._ ” His tongue darts out to lick his lips, nervous and uncomfortable as it runs across his mouth and he seems to choke on it, coughs as he slips it back inside and purses his lips before trying to speak again but making only another small, choked sound.

“Jones,” Art mutters, “Jones, no, no, don’t be sorry, it’s okay.” His voice is strangles, like it’s being drawn out and away, just as are the tears spilling from his eyes. Jones shakes his head, dropping it into his hands. “Tell me what happened. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s really not okay at all,” Jones sputters, wiping his mouth and nose harshly on the back of a trembling hand. He swallows, chokes, and he looks so impossibly small, so incredibly helpless. It steals Art’s breath from his lungs, all mass from his stomach. “I—I went out, and—” Jones exhales, choking again, and Art hugs him again, tells him it’s okay, tells him to go on, _please._ “I went out to a club and I went home with a girl and—and it was stupid, and I was stupid, and—” Art isn’t mad, and he can’t quite bring himself to be surprised. He only hugs Jones closer, as close as he can, close enough so that every small shake and every warm degree of Jones’ body echoes in his own and they are no longer two people but a joint, weeping mess of anguish, of regret on one side and of grief on the other.

Time passes, and neither Art nor Jones knows exactly how much. Art can’t possibly look at a clock, look away from Jones, from the mess of dark hair that rests just by his chin, wetted by his tears, one of his hands tangled in it while the other is wrapped around Jones’ waist. Jones’ eyes are shut, face buried in Art’s shoulder where Art can feel every shake and brush of his lips, every blink of his eyelids and every gulp down his throat.

Art says finally, “You don’t have to die.” Jones doesn’t say a thing, only wraps his arms tighter around Art, sniffling against his shoulder. “You don’t—we’ll—I’ll get more jobs, as many as I have to, and we’ll get you the best treatment out there and maybe it isn’t even that bad, maybe you’ll live to be eighty and it won’t even affect you much, yeah?”

Jones gulps, and it shakes his entire body. “Art?” His voice is a whimper, a sorrowful call of a despondent bird that is helpless in the hands of hunters, in the faces of shotguns, in the knowledge that he is alone.

He isn’t alone. Art wants, _needs_ him to know. “Yeah, Jones?”

“Stop talking.” It’s a beg more than a demand, and Art will do anything Jones asks.

 

The doctors say the next day that it isn’t an advanced case, that Jones has years ahead of him, and the irrepressible smile on Art’s face is almost matched by the look of pure, quiet hope on Jones’.

“We’re going out for ice cream, my treat,” Art announces as he slides into the driver’s seat of Jones’ car, to which Jones protests initially but yields eventually on the grounds of, “relax, sit back, and celebrate, alright?”

“I’m a better driver,” Jones mutters, grinning, but the car’s already started and cruising down the road.

 

“I’m not going to worry about it,” Jones says, blurted and outright, over breakfast. It hasn’t been discussed in days, but Art knows just what he means.

“Good.” Art gulps down milk and purses his lips. “Me neither.”

Jones nods. “You worry too much.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“I know.”

The conversation is done easily enough, but something is struck in Art that won’t die down all the rest of the day which is suddenly bleary, suddenly dull and all too heavy.

_No, he’s not going to worry about it._

He sighs, head on his arm on his desk at the cinema. _No, he’s not going to worry at all._ His head rolls onto the desk and pain rings inside it, but he can’t bring himself to care.

 

As the days go by, Art has to much to ask, so much to wonder until his brain turns inside out and stretches until it’s as thin as a film strip and eventually dissolves.

He taps the side of his nearly untouched plate of eggs with a spoon, small clinks resonating throughout his head as if there were another, parallel teaspoon tapping at his temple, all too rhythmic and driving him mad.

_Not going to worry about it, my arse,_ he thinks, on more than one occasion, and now, as he watches Jones from across the table, looking chipper as ever as he chomps on a piece of buttered toast, all the filmmaker in him wants to think is, _how tragic, he must be tearing himself apart on the inside and he doesn’t even know._ All the friend in him wants to think is, _God Jones, I know you’re not okay because I’m not okay, or maybe you are and I’m absolutely mad, but all I want is for you to be better._

_I want to help you, give me something to help you with._

_I don’t want to have to._

He wonders if he’s supposed to mention it, if he’s allowed to talk about it. He’s got to know if Jones plans on ignoring it, if he wants Art to as well.

Why shouldn’t Jones ignore it? It’s his business and doesn’t involve Art in the slightest.

Art wants to stop thinking about it but he’s just so _scared._

Art sighs, dropping his spoon to the table, and before he can even register the feeling, words are bubbling up in his throat and it’s the last he can do to spill them out, as hesitant as he is, as shockingly loud as his words come out in the stark almost-silence that had settled comfortably.

Jones doesn’t seem shocked, only a bit ruffled, as he shakes his head frantically upon hearing the question which Art realizes is entirely too intrusive and immediately regrets. But Jones licks his dry lips and responds nevertheless, “No. No, I’m not. Not yet.”

Art nods slowly, and he can’t help it, he has to ask, “Your family?”

“No, no one yet.” Jones licks his lips again, sighing, shaking his head. “If I’m not going to worry about it, why should anyone else have to? Let them sleep sound thinking I’m fine until they have a reason not to. I am fine.

Art nods, again, and he wants to smile at Jones but he can’t seem to remember how. “You are.”

“Yeah. Besides—” Jones mutters, with a small grin on his lips that Art is sure isn’t genuine—he’s known Jones long enough to be able to tell—“besides—it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?”

It’s as if Art’s been struck, a shock to the chest, ringing throughout his body as his eyes fall to the table and he is stuck, a tin man without oil, jaw still and lips closed and breath hitches in his throat as Jones’ words crawl up his veins, twist his nerves into knots.

_Embarrassed._

It isn’t _right._

_Oh, Jones, Jones, Jones._

Art takes in a deep breath that stalls in his chest, refusing to spread through his blood, threatening to explode him from the inside out.

He isn’t quite sure if he can move without ringing out the horrendous squeak of the rusty metal that he seems to have become, if he can talk without his worn jaw swinging right off its hinges.

_Oh, Jones, never be embarrassed. Yes, it’s a bit adorable when you get all flustered and red-faced, yes it’s a bit hilarious when I’m the one who causes it. But any time but now. For any reason but this._

_Never be embarrassed, because you really haven’t a reason. You’re a great person and you don’t deserve it one bit. Amazing, even._

_You’re an amazing son, to your parents, you were an amazing boyfriend to Beth. You’ll be an amazing husband to someone someday and by god I will swear by that. An amazing brother, not just to your sister but to me as well because that’s what we are, isn’t it? Brothers? Or closer, maybe, because I’ve never had this sort of bond with family._

_You know, it really does always make my day when I’m able to spend time with you. I know that’s every day, but I honestly can’t imagine a day of my life even counting as that if I don’t see you. And maybe if I told you, you’d laugh, but it would be alright because it’s such a nice laugh and it always makes everyone so happy._

_You really are a good person. The best. Better than me, for sure. Maybe it should be me. Should it? Shouldn’t it?_

_I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to live for a second if it isn’t with you._

_But I won’t have to, not just yet, yeah?_

“I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future,” Jones says with a small shrug, looking up at Art somewhat shyly. “But the future isn’t now, and now is fine. Now is good, isn’t it?”

Art gulps, finding movement again as hot blood rushes through his crackling veins. He looks straight into Jones’ eyes, and he’s sure there’s some sort of magnetic pull between them, though he can’t tell if it’s forcing them together or apart. “Yeah. Good.”

 

A year passes, and Art begins to realize that perhaps the world isn’t ending, perhaps the grass and trees and sun will live on and so will Jones, with his humble grin and big eyes, with his dorky clothes and his hair all messed up in the morning and his toasted sandwiches.

“You _are_ fine, then?”

“I told you, stop worrying about me. You don’t have to. I am.”

 

A second year passes, and it’s possibly the best year of Art’s life, because never for a second when he falls asleep at night does he doubt that Jones will be right there with him in the flat, in the morning.

They sing until the chime of midnight and a new year rings throughout the city and they gulp champagne until their throats are sore; they joke about buying each other flowers and chocolates until Art actually does it. They drink until Art passes out and Jones has to carry him home; and Art forgets to cook the Easter eggs so they end up hurling them at each other mercilessly.

Spring brings days out filming at the park, and summer, days at the beach during which Jones refuses to go into the water farther than five meters from the shore.

It is perfect, when Christmas comes, and they splurge for a tree and chug eggnog by the pint.

It is wonderful, when Valentine’s Day comes around again, and they both complain about not having girlfriends, before each realizes that he doesn’t actually mind it.

It is April, when Jones pads into the kitchen in the morning with a blanket wrapped around his slumped shoulders and a small, crooked grin on his thin, flushed lips. “I’m sick,” he mutters with a small shrug, as he slides into the chair across from Art. “Fever, I think. Where’s the thermometer?”

Art mumbles, “The—the bathroom, maybe,” as he sits, lips parted and brow knitted, conflicted as to whether he should worry, panic, or he should stay calm; whether this is dangerous or it’s common, normal—because it is, isn’t it? Normal. _It’s just a fever,_ Art tells himself, _no reason to believe otherwise._ “You know what—” Jones nods, looking up through reddened eyes. “—let me get that for you.”

Art gulps as he kicks his chair out from under the table, pulls himself up with his palms flat on the surface before heading off to the bathroom and only barely registering Jones’ croaked shout of, “Thank you!”

Even as the rickety slam of the cabinet door echoes in his mind, sound like tinsel as it rackets across the surface layers of his brain; even as the tiny plastic thermometer feels more out of place between his fingertips than ever it has; he knows he shouldn’t worry. He knows, because he’s fairly sure as well that his brain has somehow been reduced to a pastry with his insistence on baking in the thought until it’s burnt—and it feels like one, definitely, light and flaky, empty and crumbling.

As the patter of his sneakers against the floor turns from the light squeak of rubber against tile to the dull thud of rubber against wood, Art decides that, Jones has been perfectly fine for two years, he isn’t going to just blow up—he isn’t a time bomb. He isn’t going to explode, sending shrapnel spewing in every direction and piercing through every exposed bit of Art’s skin, leaving Art to bleed out every pricked hole and collapse, leak out, until he’s an empty suit of skin and there’s nothing worthwhile left.

He slips into his chair again and hands Jones the thermometer from across the table, watches Jones plop it between pink lips and maneuver it under his tongue, watches as Jones stares down cross-eyed at the thing and flicks it with a fingernail before mumbling around it, “Thirty-eight-point-six.” He slips it from his mouth and drops it lightly to the table, running his tongue across dry lips, slicking them swiftly as they shine dark pink, and the number spikes worry in Art’s chest. “Not too bad.” _Yes,_ Art keeps from saying, _it’s a bit bad._ “Will you call in sick for me?”

“Yeah, yeah—of course.” Art nods, feeling still that he isn’t completely inside his own head, a bit lost perhaps, though shaking his head again he shakes himself back right side up, inside in. “I’ll stay home as well, if you’d like.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to.” Jones’ smile, meant surely to be comforting, looks like a grimace, and it seems to Art that all his internal organs have slowed as he tries to make sense of it.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“Do you feel bad?”

“I feel fine.”

_Fine._ Art gulps. “You sure?”

“Yes, Art, Go to work.”

“Can I make you some tea first? Or—or something?”

And so, Art does, and to work he goes, though not for a second in the car alone, or at the ticket stand, not for half a second as he loads film, does the worry in his gut subside even an ounce.

As he drives home, at the end of the day, he finds his fingers on the wheel itching to unlatch the door, to hear the small click of the doorknob as he would rush in, as he would see if Jones is okay.

Flinging the door to the flat open finally is like finding oxygen when Art’s been underwater for hours—and to his immense, heart-swelling relief, standing at the kitchen counter is Jones, blanket missing from his person, a t-shirt draped over his slightly more upright chest and shoulders as he drums his fingers along the counter’s edge and waits at the toaster. “Art—” He wrings his fingers, turning to face his friend with a sheepish grin and a small shrug. “—you’re home.”

Art shuts the door, tosses his keys haphazardly to their shelf, and rushes into the kitchen. “Hi, yeah. How are you feeling?”

“Better. I slept a lot. Thought I’d eat something.” Jones gestures to the toaster, much to Art’s relief. “I made some extra pieces, since I figured you’d be coming home. If you want any, that is.”

“Great. That’s great.” 

And so—the lamb lays across the lion’s wound, and so—with a thin layer of gauze taped over himself, Art is alright.

But only until the next morning, when upon opening the door of Jones’ room just a crack, Art finds the lights still switched off and dim sun filtering through the window, casting a soft highlight over the body shuddering softly on the bed, blanket covering all but head and shoulders and arms under which it’s tucked, creased and rippled and held tight to chest and stomach. He’s turned on his side, centimeters from the edge of the bed, face visibly flushed even in the darkness.

“Jones?” Art steps around the bed, heart heavy in his chest like floating on water as he kneels next to Jones’ face, presses the back of his hand to a sweat-slicked, burning forehead, fingers brushing through wet, tangled hair

Jones groans, soft and low in his throat as he comes to, looking up through half-lidded eyes as he realizes he isn’t alone. His eyelids flutter and tremble as he holds Art in his vision, no doubt trying with all his might to stay some resemblance of awake. “Art,” he says, “It got a bit worse,” with a timid grin and a small, exhausted shrug, as he pulls the blankets tighter around himself.

“Oh my god,” Art mutters, running his hand from Jones’ forehead to press his palm against his cheek, and then to Jones’ neck, brushing his fingers along the trembling dip in his throat in which sweat collects earnestly—trailing his hand along the flushed, heaving skin, coming away with shaking, glistening fingers. Yes, worried now, he’ll admit it to himself and he’d admit it to Jones, and it’s as if his blood can’t decide whether to rush or still as it pounds in his chest and thickens in his head. And he has reason to be, doesn’t he?—because Jones is most definitely not _fine._ “Should I take you to the hospital—”

“Art.” Jones sighs, as he takes a shaky gulp and the skin around his mouth looks thin and flimsy as paper. “Art, no. Calm down. It’s just a fever. It happens to you, doesn’t it?”

“Well, well of course, but—”

“But nothing, Art. I’ve just got to stay home another day.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

“No, you don’t have to. I’ll be fine.” With a small, crooked, but oh so forced, so out of place grin, he adds, “I promise.”

With an argument like that, Art can’t do a thing but agree, giving Jones a firm pat on a weak shoulder, and leaving him alone.

Hours later, Art looks up from the kitchen table to see Jones wading out from his bedroom, another blanket wrapped around his slumped body, each step seeming a struggle to his weak legs. Surprise spreads over his features as he realizes, again, that he isn’t alone. “Art.” His voice, weak and exhausted, sounds like that of a dying animal—or so Art would imagine, and the pang in his chest when it reaches his ears makes him feel like one as well. “What are you doing here?”

The smile Art forces strains at the skin around his mouth. “You don’t honestly believe I’d leave you all alone when you look like _that,_ do you?”

“Thanks,” Jones scoffs, a response to what was far from a compliment, but it has nowhere near the effect it would have, had his voice been whole, full. And then, again, more seriously, “thank you,” and Art can tell, clear as day, clear as the bags under Jones’ eyes and the bright red cheeks under those, that staying with Jones truly was the only option. “Since you’re here, anyway, we can watch a film, if you’d like. Or—or anything, really.”

Never is his life has Art heard of a better idea. It’s the most natural feeling in the world—being in Jones’ room, lights shut off, screen bright in front of his and Jones’ eyes as they watch something they’ve seen already, countless times at that. Both Art and Jones start out upright against the headboard, but Jones eventually sinks down to where his head is against his pillow and his body is tangles up in the blankets, which Art takes note of with a small chuckle that turns easily into a sigh. And soon, when Art glances over and down, he sees Jones completely passed out, lips parted but just barely, eyelids shut but fluttering lightly, more peaceful than ever he’s looked as he sinks away from the pain and discomfort of his fever and anything else, only the dreams in his weary head holding true. Art hasn’t an inkling of the heart to wake him. Instead, he lays a hand across Jones’ arm, feels a soft pulse under his fingertips which brush just lightly over hot skin, and watches the film on his own.

Twenty minutes later Art feels a soft stirring under his fingers, as Jones comes to with a groggy murmur of, “Did I miss anything?”

Art smiles and tells no, _no,_ though the answer really is, _yes,_ but it doesn’t really matter because in a matter of minutes Jones is asleep again, head crooked on the pillow and limbs splayed, beautiful only because of how easily Jones was allowed to succumb to exhaustion, like Art falling asleep at work as he’s done so many times but being on break without a reason to fight it. And Art, of course, is content—as content as he can be with Jones so starkly ill, yet more content than he’s been all day, as to watch Jones sleep, to know that Jones is comfortable, is the best he can hope for, now.

The film comes to its end, and when Art switches the box off, Jones’ small, strained breaths come to light in the silence of the near pitch dark room lit only by the faint green glow of Jones’ alarm clock. It’s gotten late, Art sees, though it isn’t as if he doesn’t feel he’s spent hours, days, even, with Jones snoring softly, curled up beside him like he belongs nowhere else in the world.

Art’s limbs feel like jelly and his neck is stiff—he stretches out, though not far, as not to wake Jones, not to disturb him. Cautiously, he slips his hand from Jones’ arm, frowning slightly at the loss of contact, slips his legs from Jones’ bed, and he walks across the room easily making not but a sound with only his socks to slap against the wooden floor.

There’s a stirring behind him, a grumbling—a whispered plead of “Art, no, don’t go,” and Art turns to see Jones’ dark irises just peeking out from his straining eyelids, his shaking arm reaching out to Art with all the force he can muster before it falls limply to the bed and his pleading, desperate eyes, shining watery in the darkness, are a pull of their own. “Please don’t go.” Art can tell it’s a struggle for Jones just to move his lips, just to use his voice, and the realization almost has Art crashing to the floor with weak knees and a heavy heart that could never let him stand upright.

Art gulps, sucking oxygen as best he can in through his throat when he needs it more than ever, and he’s walking again to Jones, hurrying, because he’d never deny Jones a thing, not now especially, and because he hadn’t even wanted to leave in the first place.

He stands beside where Jones lies, staring down at Jones and sure that all the heart and compassion whizzing throughout his electric nerves is visible on the outside because it’s so clear to him, shaking him up by the second, pumping thick, hot wax of feeling into every empty space in his body until he is sure he’s going to turn to candle with his own flame pushing him down, watery, into the ground. Perhaps, it shows so subtly in his eyes when he feels like they’re on fire, perhaps Jones can see—he hopes Jones can see, because he can’t quite find words in the brain he’s sure is swelling in his heavy head to the point of being incoherent. He can’t think for his life—he doesn’t try.

Jones stares up at Art as well, face a mess of pain and desperation, body limp against the bed sheets before he tries, using surely every bit of strength in his sparking, drenched veins, to reach up and to squeeze Art’s forearm, and though it’s as firm as he can manage it to be Art feels nothing but a butterfly’s touch. A surge of strength, a small groan, and Jones is pulling himself up to his knees, against Art, both hands on Art’s arms and first moving up to clutch at his bicep, and though his neck is weak he holds his head up as best he can and leans it forward, all his weight on Art as hard as he tries to maintain it, pressing his forehead against Art’s, and he’s pressing his mouth against Art’s, lips shaking violently, not moving them or trying to do a thing but keep himself in place, pressed to Art, like he is drowning and Art is his infallible lifeboat.

It’s instinct, almost, when Art wraps an arm around Jones’ waist to hold him steadily upright, instinct when he cups the back of Jones’ head, fingers flexing in short, sweat-soaked hair, and what few wavering millimeters there has been between their mouths and Jones’ lips had shook are now closed forcefully and far from gracefully, yet all the grace in it swirls inside Art and melts and whips all that wax into a frenzy, swirling now but still as thick, still far too think for comfort but somehow comforting nonetheless as Jones relaxes and lets himself be held up. So far more comforting, as the two meld into one, perfect sculpture of a pair, Jones’ clammy face radiating heat like the inside walls of an oven, lips ceaselessly shivering against Art’s, hands shivering so hot against Art’s arms—shivering, shaking, melting, melting Art as well.

Jones is so impossibly hot, as blood pumps heavy through his body, rendering his limbs lazy and almost heaving, and him a heavy weight against Art but one that Art would feel naked without.

The press of Art’s lips against Jones’ is gentle yet passionate, prying—as Jones’ mouth trembles and brushes against Art’s with the quivers that just won’t stop, the slow movement is just enough to make it feel as if Jones is disappearing inside of Art or perhaps Art is being absorbed into Jones—either way they are forged into one another, as the heat of Jones’ feverish skin swells inside of Art and Art is sure to be giving Jones something; he is giving Jones everything. Just as he always had, as he always will be, he’s sure, because he can’t think of a single time when he and Jones were anything but one, together, anything but two halves and the perfect puzzle. Two pieces that fit so well even physically, like Jones’ waist was made for Art’s arm, like Jones’ hands were made to dig into the soft sides of Art’s elbows—full lips against thin, sturdier body against one which never was very strong even in full health.

Even as Art’s arms grow tired he holds Jones to him like Jones is the most important thing in the world—Jones has always been the most important thing in the world—like, if he falls, he is a chandelier crashing to the ground and shattering to shards and slivers of glittering glass. Yet, when he does, he lands comfortably with a soft thump against the mattress as the bed swallows him whole again with all its comfort and the surface warmth he cannot escape. He breaths in gasps, mouth open and eyes half-lidded, hand still clutching Art’s arm weakly and eyelids threatening to twitch softly closed again when he looks up at Art and mumbles softly, scratchily, “I feel so weak.”

Art can only mutter, as the lump in his throat swells forcing tears to his eyes, “Sleep, Jones.” And Jones does just that, eyes slipping fully, comfortably closed, last conscious breath hitched with a gasp and hand still on Art’s arm as he slips into a thick slumber. His hand falls away from Art’s forearm and slips, fingers brushing gently across Art’s skin, back into the sheets, only when Art, choked up now with his own lips quivering softly, leans down over Jones and presses his face into the crook of Jones’ neck—one hand on Jones’ shoulder, the other on his hot cheek—just to feel Jones’ heavy pulse as close as he can, to feel the heat and the blood, thick as it courses through Jones’ veins, under Jones’ skin, so clear as it pulses in his damp neck and face; to feel, most of all, the pure, sweet life of it all— _Jones’_ life, which Art has always cherished so dearly but never so much as he does now. He decides then that he never wants to leave the shelter of his friend’s pulse, pulsing against his own.

How is anything to ever compare?

When Art wakes the next morning having retired to his own bed, Jones’ room is the first he rushes to, not bothering even to dress or shower first—a luxury since they’d gotten it but nothing at all in the face of the company of Jones. Just as he’d expected yet still somewhat to his disappointment, Jones is not yet awake, dormant in the same position in which Art had left him earlier in the night gone by.

And so, Art calls in sick again for both Jones and himself—“Ay, you two dyin’ or somethin’?” and he laughs though it hurts just a bit—because he can’t leave Jones alone to wake and wonder why Art’s left him, can’t even stomach the thought of Jones being without help in whatever horrid state in which he’ll wake. He makes himself breakfast and a small plate for Jones; yet, even in the half an hour that passes Jones still does not emerge from his room—his cave, Art thinks, like he is a bat, a slumbering, protected bat, and the thought makes him grin. _Jones looks a bit like a bat, doesn’t he? Tiny and a bit adorable but absolutely vicious when he needs be._

_Oh, Jones._

Art isn’t scared until, after a few hours of writing, he loses track of time and finds after that it’s gotten late—and while it’s gotten late, Jones has slept all the day. He leans against the doorframe, watches as Jones sleeps, still, leaden limbs threatening to tip Art right off either side of the door to collapse to the floor. _Oh, god—Jones isn’t waking up._ Art doesn’t try to wake him, but he watches intently for as long as he can, with all his concentration on what he wishes wasn’t nothing at all, until panic is only a thin layer of red hot ice on a thick sea of exhaustion and he drags himself to his bedroom. He can only fall uneasily asleep, for the second night in a row.

The morning again, Art stares with a cocked head, aching eyes, and a sinking heart, at the small, peaceful face that is pale, now, like porcelain against the too closely colored sheets. Porcelain, shiny, still clammy and still so terribly asleep. _My god…_ Art doesn’t say, because he can’t force a single word out of his throat. _Jones…_

Of course, he calls in sick again.

He falls asleep in Jones’ bed that night with his typewriter in his lap.

When he wakes, his mouth is sticky from having forgotten to brush his teeth, and his neck is stiff from having collapsed into sleep before finding a comfortable position. He isn’t surprised in the least when the presence next to him is still slack under the sheets; it comes of course like a blow to his chest, but one of the many expected when he’s been thrust mercilessly into a boxing ring and he knows he doesn’t stand a chance.

Art worries his bottom lip between his teeth as he fishes his typewriter from the sheets and plops it onto the nightstand along all the last night’s full, ink-stamped papers. Crawling back onto the bed, voice wavering though he tries to keep it steady, eyes twitching though he tries to keep them dry, he utters, “Jones?” With a thick gulp, he sits cross-legged, runs a hand across Jones’ cheek—“Jones, wake up? Please, wake up?—tries so hard to be gentle, doesn’t want to hurt Jones, but he can’t help pressing down into Jones’ skin as he speaks and his voice finally breaks.

“Jones, please, if I ever ask you anything again, this is it. Wake up for me, come on, it can’t be that hard.”

Each second of silence is another hook to Art’s chest.

“I’ll have to go back to work sometime, you know. Come on, we’re—we’ll go broke, because of you.” Art forces a chuckle to the best of his ability, but it falls on closed eyes and unlistening ears. “I’ll go back today, I could do that. Would you be okay with that? … I’m not okay with that, not really. But I think I will. ‘Cause I have to. I’m sorry, Jones.”

His hand shakes as he takes Jones’, entwining clammy, slack fingers through his own, squeezing with all his might and clasping his other hand over the back of Jones’, feeling Jones’ knuckles shift under the press of his palm.

“Don’t be angry with me if I’m not here when you wake up, alright?”

He gulps and slips his eyes shut, just for a moment, lets go of Jones’ hand where both Jones’ and his own fall limply back onto the mattress, picks up his typewriter again and balances it on his knees.

**Jones,**

**You’ve been asleep for two days. This will be the third. I’m going to work, and I hate to leave you alone. But I have to. I hope you understand.**

**If you’re reading this, call me. Please.**

**– Art.**

He never gets a call.

The next day, a customer tries to get his attention for a full five minutes before he’s brought to realizing that there’s a world outside of his head, with occupants other than Jones and himself.

He doesn’t sleep in Jones’ bed again, but not for a second does the image of that pale, peaceful, quiescent face leave his mind, and not for a minute is he able to sleep sound.

It’s been five days, and Art eats breakfast alone. He’s come to allow himself to wonder what will happen if Jones doesn’t wake up, if he carried on sleeping until the day Art dies. The day he, himself, dies. Art’s heart hurts. He shovels oatmeal into his mouth by the spoonful, with false hope that it’ll be soothing if not a distraction.

But he doesn’t need a distraction, not for long, and he feels as if he’s been hit in the chest—though definitely in a good way, one he can’t quite figure out but fully knows exists as it spreads to the tips of his fingers and toes—when out of the corner of his eye he sees movement, and when he whips his head around he sees Jones, groggy, slinking through his bedroom door, body exhausted but translucent brown eyes bright as ever. Art’s breath hitches in his throat and without a word, with barely a thought and if any masked by thick waves of emotion, he’s standing, walking to Jones as Jones does the same, pulling Jones into a tight hug and breathing in the sweet oxygen he’s been deprived of for almost a week.

“I was out for a while, huh,” Jones mumbles, a small grin in his voice, as he wraps his arms easily around Art’s waist.

“Five days.” Art says, relishing in the fact that’s he’s able to talk, to Jones, that Jones can hear him, Jones can _acknowledge_ him.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” Art’s breath is shaky, but it comes more comfortably than it has in days. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel good. Well rested, if anything.” When Jones pulls back, he plants his hands on Art’s shoulders, a wide grin spread across his face. “Really, I feel better than ever. I guess I just had to sleep it off.”

“Yeah, yeah—I guess you did.” Art’s face begins to ache but he can’t stop smiling— _Jones is okay._ He can’t believe it, and at the same time he wouldn’t believe anything else.

“So how’d you manage without me?”

“Oh, I managed alright.”

As everything falls back into place, piece by piece over the course of just days, Art feels over aware of everything and wonderfully so—it’s all so terrifically clear and clean, even Jones, _especially_ Jones, chipper as ever and more _himself_ than ever he’s been, even more than years ago, ever more than the day they first met, Art would say.

Only then, does Art feel again that there is lush life on the planet, in warmth and happiness, that there is a sun that shines down on him and Jones both, that there’s good in the world—because Jones is there, and Jones is _fine._ Better than fine. _“Better than ever.”_

Only then, does Art feel as if he is Superman and Jones is Lois Lane, and he’s just seen to his favorite person’s being saved from their latest villain.

He finds himself floating on air, floating with Jones over the rest of the world, even as life couldn’t be more mundane, floating over all the people who never had a clue that something magnificent is going on right above their heads, right in that second story flat in the building right around the corner, and it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.

And he can’t help but be a bit enthusiastic about it, when Jones comes into his room—still cheerful, almost surprisingly so, though Art has no complaints—asking, “Art—I’m going to the store, can I get you anything?” Because Jones is _okay,_ and Art can’t get over the fact, because Jones is well enough to go out and shop when just a week ago he was an empty shell in a too consuming bed.

The first thing Art thinks to say is, “Can I come with?” as he twists around in his chair to look at Jones.

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t want that—you’ve got a script to work on, haven’t you?” Jones gestures limply to Art’s typewriter, offering a small smile.

“Well, yeah. Alright. Can you pick up some milk?”

“Yeah, definitely. Bye, Art.”

Left alone, Art’s able to get a few pages typed, much to his surprise and most definitely delight. When Jones returns, all still is well, and as night comes and Art falls asleep, everything could not be better.

Yet, as it nears midnight, and then comes one and soon two as Art’s digital alarm clock glows dully in the dark and scatters green light across the side of his bed, some invisible force begins to wrestle him from his sleep, and even as he tries to hold on to whatever rest he finds, not for a moment does it cease even a bit. He doesn’t hear it properly until he’s lost all hope for sleep, and now fully conscious he can clearly make out the spray of the shower against its curtain and the bathtub’s walls.

_Oh—_ he thinks _—this can’t be good,_ but he’s far too exhausted to sit and ponder it, and he’s fairly sure he can’t fall back to sleep, so he tosses blankets to get up and pads to the bathroom, to see what all of this is about.

The door is left open just a crack, lights on inside and shower running weakly as it tends to do. He knocks first, door creaking open a bit more with the force of his knuckles, worry stirring now in his chest when he’s met with no response. And so he pushes the door open, albeit hesitantly, because there isn’t much else he can do, privacy be damned, and he has to take a step back as he breathes, “Jones?”

Jones lies in the bath, water pouring down upon his frail, naked body as he shakes with soft, contained sobs, and his eyes, reddened around the edges, blink open ever so slightly. With uncoordinated lips, he mutters softly, an acknowledgement blank as can be but still so cracked, “Art.”

With that just loud enough to be skimming the surface of his brain, Art feels as if a tube’s been shoved down his throat and as he chokes around it, the air is sucked out of his body more and more by the second, leaving his organs to press together until they burst, and though he doesn’t understand, not one bit, it doesn’t take more than a few seconds before he’s dropping to his knees next to the tub and laying a hand over Jones’ shoulder, trying to shake him further awake as his eyes blink open and slip shut.

The cool water comes as a shock to Art’s fingertips, sending the prickle of it against his skin rocketing through his nerves and to his brain, and it takes a moment for it to register before it explodes in Art’s head and sparks into blazing works of worry and panic and Art can barely get control of his voice, barely get control of his hands which frantically shake and press into Jones’ shoulders, chest, and neck, and he mutters, “Jones. Jones, what’s going on? _Jones?_ ”

Jones swallows and it’s clearly a struggle, begins to speak and his voice is barely a croak. “N—n—night sweats, Art. I c—couldn’t sleep like that.”

“Oh my god,” Art breathes, skimming his hand up Jones’ neck, pressing into the soft skin in search for a pulse he can barely feel, and to his face stained with lukewarm salt water where trails of tears mix with the running tap, and his face is so, so hot. “Is—is that…?”

_Is that bad? Is that okay?_ Art doesn’t even know what he’s asking, more of a frantic mumble than a question at all yet still searching for an answer; and still, Jones shakes his head fervently, trying to gulp again as his eyes squeeze shut and tremble, as his neck stutters and his throat constricts and Art can barely hear him when he chokes, “Means I’ve got AIDS, Art.”

His voice breaks off, a high whine strangling from his throat before he coughs a sob, and his face twists into one of nothing short of pure anguish that Art’s never before seen and never wants to see again, it’s like an ice pick straight into Art’s heart—like the bomb’s exploded finally in a cold, wet mess, and sending icy shrapnel flying into every corner of the small room.

Any words of substance are lost to Art’s mind, and he can only mumble as Jones turns his face into what looks like a sort of pillow he’s brought with him, “What’s that?”

Jones’ voice is muffled, mouth pressed into it. “B—bath pillow.”

Art gulps, coughs. “When… when did you get it?”

Jones sniffs, shuts his eyes before he says, “Earlier today.”

“Oh, no.” It’s second nature to Art as he drops his head to thump against the side of the bathtub, even more so when he rubs his temple, groaning of pain that isn’t in his head at all. “No, no, _no._ ” Jones doesn’t speak, just lies and shudders and sheds tears that Art can’t tell apart from the shower water but knows with all his gut that the water that streams down Jones’ face isn’t cold and polluted. “I… I thought… _no, god._ ”

“Art,” Jones gasps, and Art hangs onto each word oh his like a rescue rope—one that only seems to pull him deeper under the surface. “You sh—should go.”

Art doesn’t fall asleep again, after all.

He wants to scream out the next morning, _“Why are we not talking about this?”_ As Jones concentrates more on his driving than he ever has before, pointedly not looking at Art as he stares out over the road, _“I need us to talk about this.”_

Jones doesn’t speak a word of it and Art doesn’t think a thing not of it, as they work together at the cinema, drive home, pick up a take-away. As night comes, this time Art isn’t asleep to be woken by the shower’s coming to life as slim fingers spin the knobs—probably just the one knob—and Jones presumably slips right inside, right to the floor.

This time, Art doesn’t say a word as he pushes the door right open, as he comes in and kneels and grabs Jones’ face in his hands, as he kisses Jones until his lips ache and he can’t tell where Jones’ tears end and his begin with the shower water filtering through theirs both, and Jones tries his shaky, tired best to reciprocate as he presses fingers into Art’s bicep and slips his eyes shut.

He doesn’t say a word as he pulls away, stands, pulls off his shirt and tosses it to the floor with his boxers following shortly thereafter.

Jones doesn’t say a word either as Art climbs into the tub alongside him, flinches as the cold water hits his skin, pulls Jones flush against him and presses their foreheads together—Jones looks up at Art with fresh tears sparkling in already shining eyes and Art only shuts his own in response. And he only lies there, cradling the impossible heat of Jones’ body in his arms, against him, his only warmth as cool water that turns freezing during the night splatters his every centimeter of skin until his fingers are numb, yet somehow still feeling the tremendous heat emanating from Jones’ skin that they drink in eagerly as Art’s fingertips press into the curve of Jones’ back—just as Art’s mouth drinks in the warmth of Jones’, lips just barely moving, breathing only against Jones’ mouth as Jones does the same. And it’s as if Art’s breathing Jones’ soul right into himself, or giving Jones a part of his own, or even just merging the two as if they were not merged already, as if they had not been for years.

Every so often does he drift off, but not for a minute is he able to properly sleep, even as he feels Jones go limp in his arms with steady breaths and a calm heartbeat.

When he wakes Jones in the morning his lips are blue, and even after Jones kisses them again and again in fervent apology, they regain their color only after hours of sipping hot tea in the most soothing, hot bath Art has ever had.

 

_“It’s confirmed,”_ the doctors say, _“I’m sorry,”_ and they’re so, impossibly calm— _how can they be so calm?_ —when Art feels far too big for his rickety plastic chair not only in body but in heart and in mind, far too much like he and his chair are going to go toppling right through the floorboards, _“A unique case it seems. It often takes ten or so years for the virus to progress this far.”_

__“It’s—it’s only taken two—why’s it only taken two?”

Jones is given no answer and Art has found no peace.

 

“Art, will you do something for me?”

He turns in his swivel chair, his back to the ticket booth’s window, and he looks up—eagerly, almost, and without a second thought to it, he says, “Of course, I’ll do anything.”

Jones shifts his weight from leg to leg, wrings his fingers, a small, light grin resting upon his lips. “Good, yeah. Well, I was thinking that it might be kind of… kind of nice, I think, if, well… if you, Beth, and I went on a sort of… a picnic.” With a shrug he looks down to the floor, flits his eyes back up to Art, offers a sheepish grin.

“A picnic?” Of course Art will do it—he could spend an afternoon with Beth to make Jones happy. He could spend an afternoon with Godzilla to make Jones happy.

“You—you don’t have to. It’s just…” Jones exhales softly, blinks and licks his lips nervously. “…something that I want to do…” _…before I die._

Jones breathes in a soft gasp, wide eyes waiting, and even as Jones is silent Art can almost hear those words, Jones’ voice, echoing in his mind—padding through it like the most unwanted house guest, leaving muddy footprints and smoke from its cigarette to cloud Art’s head until he has to blink to see through it, and he mutters, “Of course. Yes—of course.” But knuckles tap at the window, then, and Art glances behind him to see an angry face glaring down at him, waiting, and he has to go back, he knows, but first: “Are you going to tell her?”

“Yeah,” Jones says, quiet as a mouse, small as one. “Yeah, I am.”

Art thinks he hears Jones’ voice crack, but before he can say another word Jones is gone and he’s left alone to the customers he’d much rather not bother with, anyway. He sighs, takes their money and hands them their tickets—it’s hard to move his arms when he’s so sure all his muscle is made of lead.

 

Art is there, when Jones calls Beth for the first time in what Art is fairly sure is months—“Beth! Hello! … It has been a while, hasn’t it … well, I was just wondering if, if you could come over, sometime? … Oh, no, of course … A boyfriend? That’s great! … Oh, yes. I miss you too, I do, really … Friday would be great…” Art is there, and he watches, and he _studies_ because he can’t help it—he studies Jones, with the overenthusiastic smile plastered on his face that he’s perhaps forgotten Beth can’t see, with his pale fingers pressing into the phone until they’re almost as red as the plastic itself, with the slightest waver in his voice, so hard to catch but so, so clear when Art replays it over in his head, as Jones realizes that he’ll never have Beth again and probably wouldn’t be able to anyway.

Art is there, and he’ll never not be there, he thinks—he’ll never not be there for Jones, because he’s not like Beth, he’s nothing like Beth.

And he is there, when Beth comes, because Jones tells him, “Please, I can’t do this without you,” and there was never question for even a second. He gives Jones’ hand a light squeeze, before letting Jones’ fingers fall from his own as Jones opens the door. “Beth!”

“Hi!” Beth says with a bright smile as she and Jones hug. Art sneezes. “Hello, Art.” She gives a light, awkward wave.

“Hello, Beth.”

“Here, um,” Jones sputters, “why don’t you come sit down, in the kitchen,” with a smile on his lips that tries to will itself down and eyes wide as coins, and, _god,_ he’s trying so hard, it almost hurts Art to watch. But he does, and he watches, still, as Jones and Beth stand about and chat, make small talk, ask how the other is doing lately, awkward though clearly enjoying it, and the make their way leisurely to the kitchen. Jones pulls out a chair for Beth, but doesn’t sit himself. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Just water.” Beth’s elbows are on the table and fingers folded loosely. Art doesn’t sit until Jones does, trying to balance three glasses of water in two hands before setting them onto the table with the loud, grating clink of glass against wood for each. Jones sits across from Beth, Art between them on the table’s side.

“Beth,” Jones starts, so gravely with a gulp that has Beth’s eyes flickering wide. “There’s… there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Is something wrong?” Beth asks, and Jones sighs, wringing his hands over the table.

“Erm, yes.” Jones’ grimace is echoed in a softer one across Beth’s lips, like a reflection in a murky pool. “Very.”

“Well what is it?” she asks, panicked, one hand’s fingers tightening against the other’s as she draws her elbows back toward her stomach.

“Um, well, _first,_ ” Jones sputters, losing breath each moment he goes on, “know that this has nothing to do with you, I mean… it does, In suppose, but… you have absolutely nothing to worry about. Well, no, you’ll… you’ll understand what I mean.” He draws in a long breath through his nose that fills his chest visibly.

Beth’s lips are pressed in a fine line, eyebrows raised; she watches Jones intently.

Art watches the both of them intently.

“Beth…” Jones gulps, again, makes a small choking sound deep in his throat. He licks his dry, uncomfortable lips, lays his hand out on the table for Beth to lay her own in, and she does, eagerly. Another gulp and his chest is shaking, each breath only making him tenser. “Beth, I…” He shuts his eyes, squeezes Beth’s hand. Art can’t tear his eyes away, even as now it hurts to watch more than anything. “… have… AIDS.”

He looks like he’s about to take a breath but takes a few tries to get there as Art has to do the same, with the words ringing and ricocheting in his ears—classical music, screechy and sad, it turns Art’s breath and the rush of his blood to a fast paced yet languid waltz, a sort that aches to keep up with, takes far too much energy, threatens to leave Art splayed across the floor by the end of the night.

“You… _what?_ ”

Jones repeats it, voice steady like he’s scare it will shatter otherwise, “I have AIDS.” Knowing it’s got to be far more agonizing to say than to hear, Art gulps and feels as if his entire body’s going down with it.

“Full… full blown?” Eyes wet and wide like just-washed dinner plates—Jones’ face reflects in them, his solemn nod echoes in Beth’s twitchy blinks.

Jones sighs, “Yes.”

“Are… are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Oh my god.” Beth’s other hand—the one that isn’t turning Jones’ fingertips purple—comes up to her face, shaking fingers like a cage over quivering lips. Her voice shakes and her eyes watering, and she looks away, down into nothing. “Oh, my god.” Jones squeezes her hand just as hard, rubbing his thumb over the pad of her palm in slow, pressing circles.

“Oh, no, Beth, don’t cry,” he says, though he’s close to it himself.

As Art watches his eyes grow restless flitting between the two of them, searching and wanting—wanting to reach out, to do something, he doesn’t know what. He wants to reach out, and he wants to pull Jones in, right out of his chair, to crush Jones against his chest and breath in the warmth of Jones’ neck and the flutter of Jones’ pulse. He wants to hear Jones’ heartbeat, to feel Jones’ life, to feel _alive._

Beth says, voice thick with the tears that slide down her reddened cheeks, “How did it happen?”

Jones tells her, and it isn’t hard for Art to tune out the sound.

Nothing is right, not even Beth.

Beth isn’t _supposed_ to be crying, she’s supposed to be off on her own or cooking with Jones or exasperated or angry at Art, and Art’s supposed to be tired of her and having allergy attacks.

But a statue can’t sneeze and a sobbing woman hasn’t cause to be mad at an unmoving block, and Art only stares forward at nothing until his eyes ache and he has to force his eyelids to blink, top lashes catching on the bottom, sticky with tears that are just beginning to sprout.

He finds himself with only his own mind to listen to, and it feels like a pool of heavy, hot water that he can’t help but sink deeper into. When the water stirs, rippled in Art’s chest, something he’d only ever thought about for seconds hits him with its full collapsing force, a beast, a leviathan with teeth to tear him apart and with enormous power to lend him in sabotage—

_It’s Beth’s fault._

Beth’s fault more than anyone’s, anyone he knows, and it has his blood boiling, setting fire to his burning bones. He can almost feel them crumble inside him as he leans forward, suddenly failing to hold him completely upright. His arms tighten across his stomach.

“Art?” she says, voice cutting somehow through Art’s shell and finding its way straight to his ears, and it’s wavering, wet, it’s disgusting—he’d bash his head against the table if it meant he didn’t have to listen to it. He may just do that anyway. “Are you okay?” She sniffs, wipes the back of a bony hand across her nose.

“Just about as okay as you are.” Beth nods in understanding, slips that hand over and covering half her face, and Art is surprised he even still has a voice.

“Beth,” Jones says, “can I get you some tissues?”

And Beth says, “Yes, please,” with a small, self-deprecating grin that disappears in a second with a sob and a sigh.

Jones gets up, pads to the bathroom. Art looks at Beth; Beth stares down at the table.

After Jones comes back with a small cardboard box, and Beth manages to bring herself to some semblance of composed while Art scratches at the tear-reddened, itchy skin around his eyes, Jones sits up a bit straighter with his arms on the table, rings his hands anxiously and says, voice low, “Beth, I asked you to come over because I wanted to ask you something.”

“Anything.” Beth’s voice is muffled by the tissue pressed loosely over her nose and mouth.

“Well I’d really like it if,” Jones sighs, a small grin finding its way to his lips, “if you came on a picnic with me and Art. Would you do that?”

“Yes—yes, of course, I’d love to,” Beth says, and she’s smiling again, Art can see through the edge of the wilting tissue. He thinks he’d like to say something, anything, but his throat is too hollow and his mouth is too tired.

 

Before Beth leaves, she presses a kiss to Jones’ forehead, bringing out a quiet blush in his cheeks, and Art can’t tell whether it’s anger or jealousy that stirs in his stomach so he settles on both. Part of him wants to breath a sigh of relief when she’s out the door, but the relief never comes.

“Thank you so much for doing this,” Jones tells him, later. “I know you don’t like her, but you’re being great, you know.” Art gulps, lays a hand over Jones’ shoulder to look into wide, grateful eyes, and words still escape him.

 

In the days that follow and the days before the picnic, Jones does a fair job of keeping everything relatively normal. But always preferring to be behind the camera, Art’s never been much of an actor.

“Art.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re scared.”

“Yeah.”

“Please don’t be.” With a small grin, Jones spreads his arms out, shows Art the whole of his frame which Art swears has gotten skinnier, even as hard as it is to tell under sweaters and turtlenecks and button-ups—“I’m fine, see? Shouldn’t be any different from before.”

Art almost doesn’t say it, almost decides that it isn’t fair—but he can’t help himself, he’s never been able to, so he mutters with his chin in his hands and his back slumped over the kitchen table, “Except now you’ve got a bucket list.”

“No! No, don’t think of it like that,” Jones says as he leans over the table, closer to Art, shoulders hunched and mouth upturned like he’s telling a secret. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just… if there are things I want to do, why not try to do them as soon as I can?”

“Because—because you shouldn’t _have_ to, you should—” Art sighs, wipes a hand across his face. “—you should have your whole _life_ to—”

“ _Art._ ” There’s a firmness in Jones’ voice, a pull in his eyes like a magnet that Art finds his own drawn to, held in as he drops his hands from his face and stares. “Art, no.”

 

The day comes with light, baby blue skies, with clouds a soft, powdery white and with forest trees reaching up to touch them—so very mellow, and if mellow isn’t numb then Art’s never been born.

He and Beth stand outside his building, stalling on the steps while Jones looks for the tablecloth he’d forgotten. “Beth,” he nods, when they’re left alone.

“Art.” She nods, solemnly, lips pressed in a stark line as she looks anywhere but at Art’s eyes. He can’t stand it.

“Do you feel bad?”

“I feel terrible,” Beth says, and she gulps.

“You should.” She looks up at Art then, eyes shining and wide. “It’s your fault.” Art’s voice is clear, calm as he can keep it, and part of him is sure he should stop talking.

“Art, I didn’t _know—_ ”

“Well of course you didn’t know, no one ever really _knows—_ ” As tears begin to push at the corners of his eyes, he decides that whatever part of him that may be can go and suck it, he couldn’t care less. “—you think _I_ knew when we was going to go out and shag some girl? That I wouldn’t have insisted on going with him? Yeah, of course _I’m_ at fault for not being able to prevent this whole mess—so how much of _your_ fault is it for starting it all?”

Beth’s eyes start to water, lips to stutter, and whatever mixture of feelings Art can’t possible name only boils in his stomach. “Art, it’s not your fault at all, it’s not my fault, it doesn’t have to be anyone’s _fault—_ ”

“ _BULLSHIT—_ ”

And there’s a slam of a door inside, shaking Art from his hot flurry, and so he leans in close to Beth, he snarls, “We’ve got to play nice for Jones’ sake but don’t think for one _second_ that I’ve forgiven you or that I ever will. And don’t speak a word of this to him, it’ll only upset him.”

Beth’s voice is high, strained as she speaks. “Art, please, you know I’d do anything not to hurt him—”

The door opens, a small creak before Jones’ head pops out from it—“Ready to go?”

 

And so, Art plays it up. He smiles at Beth and pats her on the back and she does the same, and he opens the passenger side door with a fake smile that has his mouth aching and a reluctant yet _friendly_ utter of, “Well, there you go, Beth.”

“Oh,” Beth says, blinking, lips in the shape of just that. “Are you sure?”

Art grins. He hates it. “I insist.”

“Well, thank you, Art,” Beth mutters as she slides into the seat, pulling the door in behind her.

Even with his legs stuck and cramped and the ceiling looming only millimeters over his hair, it’s well worth it when Jones doesn’t stop grinning for a full five minutes or so. When it fades away, he makes small talk with Beth, and it comes back easily like a buoy floating back to the top of a pool. “The weather’s great today, isn’t it? Perfect for a picnic.”

“Oh it’s lovely…”

Their voices fade in and out and Art’s vision widens and wavers as he stares out the window, almost forgetting to blink, popping out of his trance only a few times to rub at his eyes.

 

“Art, can you pass me a juice box?”

The tablecloth is laid out across a spot of grass as the wind whips at small, thin-stemmed flowers around it. As stiff and forced as it is, Beth’s communication with Art seems to make Jones’ day, as does the vice-versa—“Yeah,” with a smile and a nod, and Art takes a juice box from the cooler to toss it across the tablecloth where Beth fumbles to catch it, smiling after nonetheless.

“Thank you,” Beth says with a small yet clearly uncomfortable grin as she meticulously stabs the box with its plastic straw.

Jones talks the most of the three of them, and so lively as he goes on about films and books and events and nothings, talks with his hands and his eyebrows and his smile—and when finally he says, “I just want to thank you both so much, for letting me spend a day with the two people I love the most,” with a gleam in his eyes and a mouth split between somber and grateful, if Art hadn’t already known the day would be worth it, it comes to be the surest fact he has in the fogged up depths of his mind.

 

The doctors say Jones is doing alright, they refill the pills Art’s been watching him take every morning over breakfast. They ask Art is he’d be interested in a local therapy program, and it’s probably the one Jones declined the first few visits, say he looks a bit on edge and it’s nothing to worry about, give him a pamphlet, and he tells them no, thank you, I haven’t lost anyone yet and I don’t plan to for a very, very long time. It’s not only for that, they say. On the way out he tosses the pamphlet in the trash.

 

It is only weeks later when Art realizes that perhaps he needs it. Not because of grief but because he’s got to be going crazy, because there’s no way he lives in the same world as Jones seems to. Because Art lives in a world where Jones has the worst of a terminal illness and Jones is acting as normal as ever in his own.

Art wonders is he’s imagining it all, if his senses have decided to screw with him until he’s driven up the walls.

He wonders if how he feels isn’t the norm, if he’s supposed to be calm and collected as Jones with the logical approach to the world that Art never could quite get his hands on, that Art finds he’d like more than anything. More than almost anything.

He knows that Jones is fine, at least for now, he knows even though he can’t make himself believe it.

But when he gets up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and finds Jones crying into his pillow, he isn’t relieved, he feels nothing short of anguished as he listens to Jones’ breathless, strangled sobs, as he goes into Jones’ room and sits on the edge of Jones’ bed, rubs Jones’ forearm with a gentle pressure and whispers, “Jones?”

With ragged breaths and futile gasps Jones nods, face half pressed into the pillow and streaking more tears across its already damp cloth as he tries to press his nose and mouth further into it.

“Jones, talk to me,” Art mumbles, pushing Jones’ sleeve up and rubbing his shoulders, swiping his thump soothingly across the trembling skin.

The door is still open, light pouring in from the hall, illuminating perfectly Jones’ face as he flits his eyes up the Art and tries to gasp in a breath that turns to a sob that shakes his chest. “What—what about?” he mumbles, the beginnings of a pout forming in his lips as his eyebrows furrow and he looks only into the pillow, at Art’s legs, not once turning his head up to look Art in the eyes and Art sighs, rubbing the back of Jones’ neck. He isn’t sure if it’s his imagination, when he feels Jones relax under his hand.

“I need to know,” Art breathes, begs, running his fingers through the back of Jones’ hair, “what’s going on, with you…”

Jones sniffs loudly, brings his hand up to press the pads of his fingers into the damp pillow, to lean into his knuckles as he squeezes his eyes shut and mutters, “What’s going on with me is I’m going to _die,_ Art.”

Art gulps, shakes his head as he presses his fingers gently into the back of Jones’ neck, feels him tense up again. There’s a tightening in his chest, like his heart is made up of the strings of a violin that someone’s decided can’t be sharp enough. He can’t think of a thing to say, can’t seem to make his hollow bowstring throat work, and when he finds scratchy sound that will never be music he can only spout, “No, you’re not—”

“ _Yes,_ Art, I am.” Even as Jones turns onto his back, sobbing and wiping his nose, Art doesn’t let go of his shoulder, kneels on the bed so that he doesn’t have to. When Jones looks up at the ceiling and gasps a ragged breath, Art wants few things more than to properly meet his eyes. With tears leaking out from his squinting eyes and slipping off onto the pillow on either side, one ominous drip after the other, he speaks again. “I always thought I knew what I was doing, you know, with my life. I had plans, not good ones, but _plans,_ and it’s like it’s all for nothing. I was gonna have a good—a good life, and I did, I guess, I did because sharing a flat with you has been amazing and I have an alright job and I had a great girlfriend but all those things are a bit hard to focus on when I’m—” He chokes on nothing, coughs and blinks. “—I’m _dying—_ ” With that, he lays his arms out in front of him in an emphasis that such a word’s never needed, spreads his fingers out before curling them back into his palms. “—just because I shagged someone I wasn’t supposed to!” His hands, out at his sides, fly right to his face and he sobs into them, sucks tiny breaths through the spaces between his fingers, tries to hide his face even as Art runs fingers down his plump jaw line, rubs his shoulder and his arm and his neck with a thick lump in his own throat.

“I’m so, so sorry, Jones.”

Jones threads his fingers through his hair, pushes it out of his face with both hands before crossing his arms gingerly over his chest. “I appreciate that, I do, but I don’t need it. I’ve got all the apologies I need from my own sorry self.” He tries to crack a smile but it lands as a sigh.

Art asks, heart heavy and pulsing against his ribcage as he fears the answer but craved it just as well, “So, you—you aren’t angry at anyone? For this?”

“No—” Jones sniffs. “—of course not, who with? Other than myself, of course.”

“I don’t know, me—” Art says, and Jones looks up at him with a furrowed brow and parted lips. “—me, or, or Beth—” As soon as the name hits his ears, Jones snaps his lips shut and shakes his head frantically, eyes startled, tears halted. “—definitely the—the slut who did this to you.” Art hadn’t planned to say it but when he does, he gulps, because it feels so strange on his lips, on his tongue.

“Oh no, Art, she was nice,” Jones breathes, sinking as he relaxes again into the pillow, eyes half lidded and tired as Art stares expectantly at them. “She was nice, Art. She was pretty, blonde. Like Beth.” His eyes slip shut and he shakes his head again, mutters, “I liked her.”

Art nods, blinks, whispers, “Did you?” because he doesn’t know what else he can say. When Jones nods, Art gulps for what seems like the thousandth time but is never enough for his dry, tried throat. “So you don’t… blame anyone?”

With a tiny gleam in his eyes, apologetic almost as they look finally into Art’s, for which Art could not be gladder, looking into which he wants to sink, to disappear. “No, I don’t. Why should I?”

Art offers a small shrug and with Jones looking up at him like that he can’t even find an answer for himself.

“Sometimes things just happen,” Jones sighs, rubbing at his weary eyes. “It doesn’t have to be anyone’s fault, or anything like that.”

 

She’s sitting at the kitchen table when Art walks in, cheeks smudged pink and far grown hair pushed behind her ears in a smooth braid, elbows on the table’s surface and mouth and nose pressed in a tissue held between slender fingers. Jones sits across from her, reaching over, a hand on her bicep, eyes on hers which stare at him, searching, twitching around the edges as if she is staring at the sun itself—filling the flat with shining light that sears her shoulders out from her sleeveless shirt and casts heat across her cheekbones to paint pale skin pink.

“I’m sorry, I should go,” Art sputters, almost like instinct as he steps back and turns through the door.

Whatever part of him that had been expecting to hear, “No, you can stay,” had not in the least expected it to come from Beth, and he almost doesn’t believe his own ears even as she drops one arm to the table at stares up at Art with tears just beginning to sprout along her eyelashes, with a pink-tipped nose and pouting lips.

“Can he really?” Jones whispers, astounded, a grin breaking out on his face when Beth smiles and nods. Art steps back across the room, cautiously pulls out a chair next to Jones’ and sits with his arms in his lap and his hands folded loosely.

“I was just apologizing,” Beth says, sniffing and worrying the tissue in her fingers as the box sits stationary next to her elbow. “To—to Jones and, perhaps I should apologize to you as well.”

As Jones presses his lips together firmly and shakes his head lightly, Art draws in a heavy breath that rockets down his throat in a gulp and lands in his stomach in a knot.7

“And I,” Jones says, a small sigh and his own apologetic grin, “was just telling Beth that she doesn’t have to apologize for a thing, that I don’t need it and that she shouldn’t worry about anything like that.”

“I, um,” Art breaths, throat tight and exhales a rush, “Jones is right,” and Beth’s eyes flicker wide. “But I do appreciate that. I really, really do.”

 

“Oh, no, Art—”

Water trickles down Art’s face as he bounds up the steps, drops off his bangs and along his haw—his shoulders are soaked already through his t-shirt, jeans speckled wet at his calves and uncomfortably smug against his legs. If the warm summer rain had had him lazy, he’s more than alert now as he peers over Jones’ shoulder at the key that won’t seem to budge in their building’s door, whichever way Jones tries frantically to turn it, jaw clenched and fingertips going white.

“—I took the wrong key.” Turning his back to the suddenly looming, disappointing Great Wall of a block of painted wood, Jones faces Art and offers a shrug because he can’t give anything else.

“Huh”—Art mumbles, shaking drops of water from his eyelashes and bangs—“you think I could break it down?”

“Do you still have that ax?”

Art sighs: “No…”

Jones offers a little grunt of acknowledgement, of _well-there-you-have-it,_ shifting on his heels.

“So—what?” Art turns and leans back, top of the steps’ railing caught in his folded palms, arms holding him up like sticks would a camping tent. The rain soaks through his shirt, patters in sizeable drops and smudges against his chest. “We’re stuck out here?”

Jones sighs, grimaces. “Looks like it.”

“Eh, that’s okay.” Art finds himself staring off into the grayish night, eyes hard to move, rain wearing on his energy still. At least it’s just the end of the summer, at least the water’s warm, like a pool, like a bath, he doesn’t mind it, he doesn’t think. No, it’s fine. He’s fine.

“Is it really?” Something lies across Jones’ face, his wide eyes and parted lips, and Art’s fairly sure it’s either disbelief at Art general _okayness_ or lack of care at least, now, or a pleasant praise and gladness that Art isn’t frustrated, or anything.

Art doesn’t really know. He doesn’t want to think about it, or anything. Doesn’t want to think about anything.

Jones’ hair is sticking up in the places where it isn’t matter down. It’s a bit amusing, really. Art finds a smile on his lips, but perhaps it was already there.

“Are we really going to sleep out here?”

“Sure,” Art sighs, happily, “Who’s there awake to let us in?”

“Alright.”

When Art sighs, legs crossed and back pressing uncomfortably into the railing’s bars, the lukewarm water that’s pooled across the concrete seeps through the seat of his jeans. The backs of his thighs feel damp, and _weird,_ he thinks, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. Jones lowers himself gingerly to sit as well, and Art leans close because, _why not?_

Somehow, through the course of the next few drowsy hours, Art ends up on his back, one leg crossed over the other and arms folded behind his head—a slippery, fleshy, still-not-soft-enough pillow, with Jones spread out next to him, Jones’ arm slung across Art’s stomach and head resting on Art’s chest.

“This reminds me of something,” Art mumbles, not entirely sure if it’s aloud, not entirely sure if Jones is awake.

Jones sighs, and Art feels it. “Art.” And his voice is testing, gentle still, like all those times Art’s ended up falling asleep at work or offending or terrifying someone without realizing it, or chasing a child with an ax or saying something embarrassing for the two of them altogether. And so, Art is silent. Jones sighs again, sputters to spit rainwater out of his mouth, and Art reaches out an aching, stiff arm to rub at his shoulder.

Art hasn’t an inkling of an idea how much time is passing. He wonders if his cell phone’s gone waterlogged. It was cheap, anyway.

“Hey—Jones?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you awake?”

“Barely?”

Art’s hand is still on Jones’ shoulder; he isn’t exactly sure if he can even move. “Can I ask you something?” It’s a bit hard to speak, with his mouth facing the sky, with the sky pouring rain into it earnestly.

“Sure.” Jones’ breathing is heavy, steady, it echoes in Art’s own chest.

“Are you going to tell your family?”

Jones sighs, shuffles and shifts against Art’s side. “No—no, not just yet. I mean—I’m still okay, aren’t I? I’m fine. I’m not sick, not really. Well. It doesn’t matter, I’m okay. And I’m not going to worry. So the people I love aren’t going to worry either.”

Art finds life trickling down into his stiff fingers and he squeezes Jones’ shoulder hard, still gentle though as he feels so weak, and Jones shifts again, trying to get closer.

“Apart from you, I suppose,” Jones mutters into the scratchy cloth of Art’s shirt. “I wish you didn’t have to.”

Later, with Jones lain across him, slim fingers clenching and unclenching in sleep the wet speckles fabric at his chest, Jones’ forehead resting comfortably where the hem of Art’s shirt falls low on his neck, Art decides that if there is a heaven or anything like, this is what it must feel like. And if truly he’s right, he thinks, Jones hasn’t a thing to worry about.

Art is woken at just the first graze of the dry sun against his cheek and his stiff, awkwardly-dried clothes, at the first opening of the door from inside and its loud smack against Jones’ hip, and even as Art can see how it must hurt, Jones doesn’t seem unhappy in the least.

 

It’s a tiny place, just a few blocks from the cinema. Art’s fairly sure he’s been here before; the cream and white striped wallpaper strikes something familiar in him, not enough to truly remember, albeit.

He finds her sitting alone, near the back, absent-mindedly toying with a near full plate of chips. When she looks up, face narrow and eyes wide like almonds, she looks almost like a mouse caught rummaging through someone’s pantry, wary as her fingers skid across the edge of the plate’s light blue ceramic. “Art,” she says, voice blank, eyes testing.

“Hello Beth,” Art says, trying a smile as he slides into the second wooden chair across the tiny square table. “Well—how’ve you been?”

“I’ve been alright,” Beth sighs, and with a tired sigh of a grin in return. “How’s Jones?”

“He’s good, he says.” Art shrugs, leaves his shoulders hunched a bit forward still as he wrings his fingers in his lap. “But I’m still worried, of course.”

“Yeah, I am too.”

There’s a short silence that Art fills for himself by cracking his neck subtly and straightening his spine, because his tongue feels too heavy, too oafish to fill it with anything else. He sighs, swallows and blinks, and Beth looks up again from her not untouched but far uneaten plate. “Um… I just wanted to… to apologize.” He makes a small gesture with his hands on the last word like it needs it.

“What?” Beth’s eyes are wide, her upper lip twitches. “Really?”

“Yeah—yeah, definitely.” Art draws in a deep breath, blinks slowly on the intake and sighs. “Beth, I’m so, so sorry. I, um. I know you loved him just as much as me.”

“I still love him,” Beth says, a sad chuckle. “How can you not, really.”

“Yeah…” Art gulps. “I really am sorry for all those things I said.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but, really, it’s alright.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I mean,” Beth says, with a small smile and a light shrug as she drops her forearm to rest on the patterned tablecloth, “it hurt, of course, still hurts. But it all hurts, so what’s the difference?”

“It does,” Art sighs, “doesn’t it? And to think that Jones probably feels so much worse.”

Beth nods, wanders with her eyes for a moment. “You’re taking care of him?”

“As best I can.”

“Thank you, Art.”

“No,” Art mutters, and his breath hitches in his throat. He blinks, and finding air is a struggle. “Thank you. For making him so happy for so long.”

A sad smile laces with humility breaks out on Beth’s face as she rubs at her eyes lazily. “You know, all this really means a lot to hear.” Art cracks a tiny, sad grin of his own. “This may sound stupid, but I’ve always really wanted us to get along.” She shrugs, sighs—Art’s eyes flicker wider, attentive, interested. “I always felt like it would never work with, with Jones if I didn’t have the approval of the person he wad closest to. I tried not to mind it but it’s never that easy.” With a deeper sigh as she looks down, she shakes her head. “That was part of the reason I broke up with him.”

“Because… of me?”

“Oh, Art, no—”

“Oh my god.” Art barely has enough air in him to talk—he rests his elbows on the table, drops his face into the warmth of his hands. “Because of _me._ ” His eyes itch and his lips shake, and he feels the soft brush of fingertips along his forearm. Beth runs her hand up the length of its bone, pressing gently into Art’s muscle.

“Art, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be.” Art’s voice is thick and stuffy as he runs both his hands through his bangs, drops his arms to the table and squeezes his eyes shut in trying to find composition.

“I shouldn’t have told you that, huh?” Beth’s lips are set in an apologetic grimace.

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” Art gulps, drops his hands to his lap. “Everything’s fine.”

 

The next time Art cries himself to sleep, he sheds tears not entirely for Jones or for himself, but for Beth, for Jones’ family who may not even know until it’s too late, for all the people Jones used to know who may someday wonder whatever happened to that funny, awkward kid and then abandon the thought within hours, never finding out what did happen and living on blissfully. Art can’t decide whether he wants to keep it a secret, so to say, a private bit of truth for only himself and Jones, and even Beth, he doesn’t mind, or he’d rather scream it out from the rooftops and let people know, because they should know Jones, they should know that sometimes good people suffer and that Jones is just so, so strong.

He doesn’t dream but he imagines that if he did, his dreams would be filled with wayward splotches of blues and grays, like those that spread across the insides of his eyelids whenever he presses his face just a bit harder into his pillow, clutches the rumpled sheets just a bit harder in his restless fingers, clenches his teeth just a bit harder so that they slide and scrape together with the most horrid grinding, squeaking sound and all he can do is sob and sigh and gasp little, strangled sounds as invisible, inconceivable forces squeeze the air painfully out from his chest.

The next morning, he grips his toothbrush _just a bit harder,_ and it snaps in two in his fingers.

An odd occurrence turns to just every few days, and some full clusters of days, night after night after which Art just can’t seem to get up in the morning or even peel his face off of the soaked pillow that’s melded to his skin.

The next time Art manages to scrape himself out of bed and slump around the flat in the middle of the night for no reason other than that his limbs are strung out from lying limp across the sheets, he can hear a faint whimpering and wailing through the too-thin walls, and he’s drawn to Jones’ room by the same force that won’t seem to let him go, the force that pushes in on him from the outside until he has no room in his body left to breath.

He doesn’t need the lights on, knows Jones’ room well enough; when he climbs into Jones’ bed he does it gently, but forcefully enough to let Jones know he’s there. To let Jones that he wants him to know he’s there. Jones looks up, face red and shining, and he drops his head back onto the pillow when Art lies down with him and hugs him close, neither saying a word.

In the morning, Jones wakes up. Of course he wakes up.

Every morning Jones wakes up, every day he drives Art to work and the two of them come back home later and all that ever changes is where and how they get dinner. Each repeat of the most mundane schedule is a shot of anesthesia straight into Art’s spine, though sometimes it’s shot in the meat of his calf, and sometimes in the back of his neck to leave it with an ugly crick and a dull ache that doesn’t seem to go away. The numbness never seems to last long before he’s left in its tingling, aching aftershocks.

And perhaps there’s metal in this hideous shot as well because every time he sees Jones, the magnet, the signal and the lighthouse and the lovely black hole, Art can feel it pressing out, tingling under his skin, rising to the surface and ringing ceaselessly whenever Jones touches him, brushes into him. Rattling in his head whenever Jones speaks to him.

 

“I just—I can’t _take_ it anymore, you know?”

“Art, calm down, alright? He’s fine, isn’t he? He’s okay, now?”

“Well, yeah, of course he is, I wouldn’t be standing around on the phone if he wasn’t, but—who knows for how much longer? I mean, I sure as hell don’t, so what if I wake up one morning, and—I could wake up one morning and he could just be gone, or—or he could be sick, or—”

“It’s not that quick, Art. It’s not. Nothing’s ever that quick.”

“No, everything’s far too quick. You can’t keep up with it— _I_ can’t keep up with it all. I’m so scared, Beth. I’m so, so scared.”

“Oh, of course, I know, and I am too—how could you _not_ be scared?”

“I almost wish I knew—oh! He’s home. I have to go.”

“I’ll talk to you later?”

“Definitely.”

 

It’s metal, metallic. It’s like blood. Blood, rattling about in Art’s head, like those metal beads, or those things they put on cakes. Those things. He can’t stop thinking about them. Maybe they’ve sprung up from his stomach into his brain. Has he ever had those?

He sits on the edge of Jones’ bed and ever since he decided, just hours ago when he was at work with Jones and had all those hours to think, he can’t stop thinking. About everything, nothing. He sits still because he’s snuck into Jones’ room, and none of this is going to work if Jones wakes up.

He’s treading water but even that is far too thick, too red, too deep to be that at all. It’ll fill his lungs if he stops moving, he knows. It’ll choke him up if he messes up, if he breathes wrong or moves too much and if Jones wakes up and he finds out, it’ll drown him.

He wants to reach out for a raft but it’s too late, it’s been popped by a needle’s shiny point in the heat of the sun that reflects off Art’s private pool, his hot tub, too hot, cold enough for him to feel shivers trailing along under his skin.

It’s dark in Jones’ room, and Art has no raft, but he does have a needle which he rolls between his thumb and forefinger. It’s shiny in a dull way, knobby on the end, looks used and worn and is hot from all the time it’s spend between those two sheltering, sweltering fingers. It’s slicked with sweat from Art’s hand. He’s terrified beyond belief that it will slip from his grasp. He’s terrified of what will happen if it doesn’t.

He wishes he could close his eyes, but he’ll miss if he doesn’t see. He wishes it could be like a shot, he could clench his jaw and close his eyes and not pay attention and it would all be over in a second. But it’s not like that at all, so he squints in the near-darkness, in the dim light that filters in from the crack in the door where Art had feared closing it fully would make too loud a sound. He squints and blinks and tries not to blink as he raises his non-needle-wielding forefinger in front of his eyes, and then down where he can bend his elbow against his side because his arm begins to ache. And his other arm aches too, because it’s shaking so hard and he’s trying to keep it so steady, and the space between that thumb and forefinger because he’s gripping the needle so hard. He’d relax his hand if the thought of letting go of that tiny metal weapon was anywhere near bearable. His whole body would relax if any of this was even in the same universe as the concept of bearable.

He swallows and tries not to exhale too loudly after, but part of him craves it as it’s too quiet, he can’t hear a thing but his occasional sputter of badly timed breath where the length and depth of his windpipe is horribly estimated—not hard at all to do when he has to remind himself every few moments how to breathe.

He can’t take it anymore, _dammit,_ and in a rush of confusion and pain and anger and the ceaseless running of the engine inside him and the conveyor belt muscles of his arms he stabs himself, right in the pad of his finger, right in the fleshiest part, and _goddammit, it’s hurts, it hurts so much._ He can take it, he can take a lot, he’s been bludgeoned with a camera and lived to tell the tale (though he often did refrain from explaining how that came to happen), but it’s different when it’s by his own hand. By his own hand and his own faithful, scary needle, both of which relax visibly as it’s done, as blood sprouts in a tiny metallic scarlet bead in the pinhole prick and trickles down into the creases that line his joints. The hot, sharp pain’s turned lackluster by now, and his finger feels more tired than anything.

His panic spikes again when he realizes that that was the easy part. That Jones can’t possibly sleep through that. He wipes the sweaty needle off on his shirt and hopes for the best.

He stands from his place at the foot of Jones’ bed, steps around to the side where Jones, fast asleep, faces him so very peacefully. He doesn’t sit again—he doesn’t think he can. From its place lain across the sheets he takes Jones’ arm, so limp and so warm, so unattended and helpless, almost. Art finds himself heavy with the overwhelming need to protect this boy who is far too old to be called that, this person who is so unbelievably weak and who means everything to Art and more, who draws out all the feelings in Art that completely contradict everything he is about to do.

Believe him if he believes himself, he can’t possibly not.

Jones’ slack arm almost slips from his sweaty, nervous grip—he’s terrified to grip too tightly, horrified to accidentally let go.

So he lets Jones’ arm fall away, slip just a few centimeters at a time, until it is only Jones’ hand that he holds in his own, fingertips propping up Jones’ palm, Jones’ fingers like a waterfall cascading through his own in the dark.

Art wants to say something, anything, but even if he could let himself his throat feels empty—only wind he breathes in through his mouth, stuck like glue when he breathes out.

So he doesn’t say a word, not even silently to himself—thinking would ruin everything, thinking he’s sure is what will ruin him.

He presses the needle between his fingers, again so impossibly hard, and his fingertips are white, his knuckles ache. He’d close his eyes but slipping would be catastrophic, as he pricks Jones’ finger, too shallow but even too deep, soft skin giving too easily but not easily enough—and when warm blood drips from a rough fingerprint, Art quickly but gently presses his own dripping finger to Jones’—and he’s home, he’s safe.

He’s free and he can feel but so can Jones—Jones is stirring, waking, “ _Mmm,_ ”—and his eyes blink open ever so slowly—“Art?”—and Art wants to disappear, wants to melt away—“Art? _Art? OH MY GOD—WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_ ”

He’s tossing the blanket off him to sit up, staring at Art with his eyes wide and his bottom teeth showing, and Art can only stand there, blood dripping from his finger ad oto the floor, Joes cradling his own hand, trying to stop his own flow of blood.

“ _ART!_ ”

Art says nothing, stares, presses his fingers into the sides of his thighs and shifts on his feet. Can he run? Would it be still like treading water?

“ _What the hell?_ ”

And Jones is leaning forward, he’s panting heavily and on his knees, and he swings a loose fist at Art’s face, it’s like a rubber bag bouncing off of iron; Art can only stand there still when Joes brings his hand back, groans and cradles it in the bleeding one—can he be so frail? Art stands and breathes and feels his ribcage caving in on him.

With eyes red, bloodshot, with his hands in each other and his cheeks flushed dark, Jones looks Art in the terrified eyes, his own eyes like lasers, and mutters—“ _Get out._ ”

So Art does, closes the door behind him, falls with his back to it and sinks down to sob into his hands and between his knees, curls in on himself, stays that way until morning is discernible.

 

“We’re getting you tested, you know,” Jones says the next morning when he’s sat Art down on his own bed, voice steady but wavering over its breaking point. “I made an appointment for you later today. I’m sure you’ll—” He gulps, “—you’ll be fine.”

When _I’m sure_ means _I hope,_ Art can only sit, shamed, like a dog being scolded, with his head down and craving both to look Jones in the eyes and to avoid his gaze forever.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Jones asks, and his eyes now are like canyons, deep set filled with nothing and everything. He’s trying to be calm, Art can tell, but he’s panicking, pained, just like Art. Jones is panicking and angry and sad and disappointed and Art hates it, he hates himself.

“I can’t live without you,” Art says, and it’s so simple but it’s so _not,_ and he’s crying again, already, tears slipping down his cheeks, the creases by his mouth, dripping off his jaw, and echoing a hundredfold in his quiet voice.

“Art, please don’t be like that.” There’s a solitary tear slipping from Jones’ eye, the one little defiance of the _keep-calm-for-Art’s-sake_ demeanor he emanates like a light bulb, that makes Art sick but not well enough, that makes Art fall in love and fall apart and fall into and away from himself.,

Art looks at Jones and he doesn’t say a thing. He can’t.

“Please don’t,” Jones mutters, begs. “You can’t.”

“But it’s true,” Art says, and he could break down on the floor, shed tears like blood.

“No, no it isn’t, Art.” Jones’ eyes plead, perhaps even to himself, even as Art finds himself lost in them and drowning. “You’re so much more than just us. You’re so much bigger than that.”

Art’s shaking his head, barely registers he’s doing it, with his lips parted wide and his eyes watering earnestly.

“No, Art, you really are something, you know? You really are special, and I’m not just saying that. Please, don’t throw your whole life away, just because of me.”

Art’s throat tightens, makes a choked little noise, and he can only gasp in little, panicked breaths as Jones goes on.

“I mean—you have dreams, don’t you?” Jones’ voice is soft even as it echoes in Art’s mind, reverberates until it’s left Art limp and exhausted, the loudest beg and so desperate, so tremendously wanting. And Art wants nothing but to give. “Aspirations? You’re a talented filmmaker, Art, you’re gonna be big someday, I swear it. And—and you’ll fall in love, you’ll get married. You’ll find someone else, yeah? You’ll be happy, you’ll be successful. You’ll be great.” Jones nods, lips pressed together tight, tears smearing across his eyelids and cheekbones. “Don’t throw it all away, don’t do that, please Art, not for me.”

Art feels like he’s going to fall forward, doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until one of Jones’ hands comes around to cup the back of his head, steadying him, the other had on his cheek and his face is only centimeters from Jones’ as they breath the same delicious, defiant air—there’s that magnet, again, that force telling him to both push into and pull away from. "I love you," Art strains, with tears clouding over his vision, almost doesn't realize he's doing that, either, "s—so much." “You have to live, Art,” Jones says, pleads. “You have to go on. Can you do that? Do you think you can do that?

“No,” Art sighs, gulps in the air and energy that escapes him. “But I’m willing to try.”

“For me?”

“Of course.” And Jones presses their foreheads together, breathes and Art can feel his whole body shake with it. “Al—always.” And he can only mumble and stare, caught and held in Jones’ watery, pleading gaze, his head down, his lips wavering, so impossibly fragile.

And before Art can register it or register anything Jones is tipping his mouth forward and kissing him, long, smooth strokes of perfect, pink lips against Art’s while he holds Art close, both hands on Art’s temples. As Art kisses Jones back, hungrily, desperately, he can do nothing but surrender to the heat of Jones’ mouth, to the warmth of Jones’ that’s always been Jones—he puts his hands on Jones’ waist and he never wants to get up.

 

It echoes across the flat, a panicked call only amplified by the acoustics in the bathroom from which it comes, “ _Art!_ ” And he’s running, tripping over furniture as that strangled, choked cry echoes in his mind and echoes again as he’s called again. He can’t burst open that door quick enough—he does, arms pulsing and restless, mind racing and heart feeling thick with blood and fear; and there is Jones, looking up at Art with wide eyes, leant over the sink and panicked. Art sees first the blood spotted across Jones’ mouth—open almost perpetually in surprise though now it’s so impossibly different—collecting and pooling in the dip in his bottom lip and then, more blood, splattered in the sink, dark and scarlet against the white porcelain.

Jones looks like a deer in headlights—frail and shaking, eyes like planets as he stares between his blood and Art, the blood with horror, Art with panicked confusion and quiet desperation. Like a baby deer, and Art needs to protect him. Needs to save him.

_Bambi, your mother’s been killed._

Jones gulps, looking solely now at Art, reaching up to touch his mouth where blood slips in tiny drops down his chin, before changing his mind, fingers hovering like a cage around it, not daring to touch but terrified to leave be.

Art wants the same, wants to touch Jones, wants to cradle Jones against him—but can Jones break? Snap like a twig, because he’s already as thin as one?

_Jones, you’re dying._

Jones stays put, reaching a hand behind him to steady himself against the sink and Art doesn’t move, he’s scared to but scared not to, scared to do anything but terrified to do nothing.

_Art._ A hand on Jones’ shoulder, another on Jones’ cheek, trapping Jones’ wayward hand between their faces as Jones melts into the touch, quivering on weak legs. _Jones is dying._ “We’re going to the hospital, yeah?” Jones nods fervently, leaning on Art, too scared and too weak to properly walk so Art helps him.

 

Art can feel everything and he can’t feel a thing.

It’s like spices, he realizes. Like spices, in a dish, because when you have one of a few, you can taste them all, it’s okay. You can understand. But when you dump a cloud of everything on this steak which suddenly to you is like a raging bull, it’s too much and you can’t tell one from another or all from nothing, you just want to rip your tongue out. Art just wants to rip his heart out.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever let go of Jones’ hand, not for one second that he’s in this uncomfortable plastic chair and Jones is supine in the hospital bed with its perfect white sheets and its perfect metal machinery that Art just wants to watch fold away, like in a play, the whole scene to fold and fall away and morph into something just a bit closer to home.

“You had a _cold?_ ” Art says, and it’s more of a growl but a soft one at that.

Jones only nods, head limp against his complementary pillow.

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“I thought I’d be fine, I—I didn’t feel much worse than usual, anyway, I took the antibiotics and everything.”

“ _Dammit,_ Jones.”

“I didn’t want you to worry—”

“Well, I am. I do, Jones. I worry.”

“I thought it was nothing—”

“ _Nothing_ is ever nothing, Jones.”

“Art, I’m so sorry,” and Jones is crying now, and Art tries—and fails—not to.

“ _Dammit, Jones._

 

Jones’ relatives come and go like the seasons, and sitting constant all the time is Art, like that big old oak tree in every neighborhood, that big old tree who braves it through the seasons, who stands tall even as he sears in the heat and is piled with snow. So, so very old, Art feels, and Jones is far too young.

There comes a seemingly-perpetually-cheery(-i.e.,-optimistic-as-one-can-be-in-a-situation-like-this) aunt with a spring in her step despite the horrendous looking weight above her soles; a grouchy, frail old uncle with hair white as snow with whom Jones was never close yet comes with connection, absolution in mind nevertheless, because he knows his late wife, loved Jones, would have.

Jones’ mother and sister stay for a few days both, overlapping, overwhelming especially for Art because it kills him to share. It’s nice, it’s loving, of course nothing short of—but _dammit he doesn’t want to share._

Beth stays for some days as well, and Art finds that he doesn’t quite mind it.

But Jones is his—Jones is all his when all the family leaves at night, when Art stays because he can’t stomach the thought of leaving, not that he’d even for a second considered it.

Fluorescent lights above two tired heads never willing to sleep—bright just enough to make everything look dull, light just enough to strip any shadows of any shadow in themselves and absolve all that is anything but crystal—bubble and thicken up in hideous fake white light across Jones’ skin, across the hairless undersides of Jones’ arms which look pale enough already, like paper, thin and frail and tiny enough sticking out from creased paper sleeves.

Art asks, “Got any nines?”

“Eugh”—Jones mutters, cards in meticulous fingers near his stomach, arms laid out in front of him, exhausted—“go fish.” His head is propped up by the standard-issue pillows of which he’d kept asking for more, his neck creases awkwardly whenever he looks down.

“You’re shameless,” Art jokes, leaning back in the plastic chair that’s as of late become like his very unfortunate, uncomfortable home. Comfortable enough with Jones, though. He has no complaints.

“Mm,” Jones mumbles, a nod and a tiny chuckle as he thumbs through the plastic pieces in his lap. “Any threes?”

The tiny beeps of a heart monitor become soon like the ticks of a clock.

“Art?” Jones whispers one night, surrendered almost to the thresholds of sleep but awake still, alert almost but exhausted more than anything.

“Yeah?” Art leans forward in his chair, the chair he thinks he’s come to count on almost as much as Jones if such a thing can even be.

“Will you come into bed with me?” A soft voice like a mouse or a cricket or a child, eyes like the three all hopeful and shining.

Art asks, because he wouldn’t do a thing to jeopardize his stay: “Will the doctors be okay with it?” As if he’d ever cared much about authority—some things are just too precious to risk.

Quiet and tiny and precious and priceless, “I’m sure they won’t mind.”

Art could never argue further, because crawling into that plain old bed with Jones is just about the only thing he’s wanted to do all this time, wrapping his arms around Jones and holding him close, protecting him like a weak, tiny body should be protected.

And as he does just that, as he climbs up onto the mattress and feels it dip under his knee, the extra weight it might not even be able to hold, all that and the doctors are forgotten; nothing else matters as Jones settles into him, head on his chest, arms folded in between both of their stomachs.

When Art wraps his arms around Jones, pulls him in and holds him there in a hold tired but cement-firm, Jones curls into Art, like trying to disappear into Art’s shirt or his skin, or into his breath and his heartbeat, and Art finds himself doing the same.

Hours pass or unmarked time, time that Art couldn’t care for, because numbers are nothing, all is nothing but Jones’ breath which lulls Art tired like a lullaby, which wisps, steady, through and past parted pink lips, as Jones’ eyes themselves are half shut, drooping, drowsy like Art is.

And perhaps Art is dreaming, when these breaths lose the drumbeat rhythm they make with Jones’ heartbeat, the steadfast song lovelier than can be made by any musical instrument, when these breaths turn erratic, some deep and savored and some strangled and gasped, random almost as they pulse in Jones’ body and echo against Art’s chest.

Perhaps he is dreaming, perhaps it’s all in his mind even as it just barely pierces the veil of his consciousness, when Jones’ tiny breaths get shorter and shorter, quicker and more desperate. He pulls Jones closer, closer still, never close enough.

Art’s sure he’s dreaming because he can’t feel a thing, not the awkward stutter of Jones’ breath—even as it plays out in front of him like a film—not when the breaths, the precious breaths like jewels, popped like bubbles, slow and choke, and then stop, stop and are gone, and with his jaw clenched and his voice thick and his eyes clouded with tears he can’t feel either, he can only mumble, “Jones”—and the doctors have come, they’ve heard the stark beep of the heart monitor that hadn’t even registered in Art’s clouded head—“ _Dammit, Jones,_ ” and it’s a grumble and a groan and a plea, and the nurses have to forcibly pull him from the empty bed.

 

“Art”—Beth asks, voice soft and eyes pointed low—“Can you pass me a juice box?”

The spring wind is warm and light as is wisps about the two, through the grass and all the thick-stemmed dandelions, makes their picnic blanket flutter lightly under their seats—the blanket Art had found in the attic, the one he’s fairly sure belonged to Jones. “Yeah”—and he opens the cooler, hands Beth a juice box, would toss it, but—what’s the need?

“Thank you.”

And it’s quiet save for the chirps of birds, the empty noise of the wind whistling through leaves and trees. Art’s never liked quiet, but this feels different, somehow, it feels alright.

“I’m working on a new script,” he says quietly, plucking from the cooler a cherry juice box of his own and toying with it in his hands.

“Oh yeah?”

Art nods. “Yeah. It’s about a man, who has a friend, who leaves one day, but it’s alright because—because he has no choice… don’t know why yet, but there’s got to be a reason. And so, the man has to find footing again, has to make his life mean something again. And he’s alone, but… he isn’t. Not really.”

Beth is silent, staring at Art with wide, sympathetic eyes. Art worries his plastic straw between his fingers before slipping it gently into its hole in its tiny cardboard box.

“I’ll use a lot of blur, I think.”

Beth nods, cracks a smile, holds up her mixed berry juice box in initiation of a toast. “To Jones,” she says.

Art holds up his juice box and red meets purple, painted cardboard clunks against the same, and for the first time in days he feels a smile crawling up onto his lips. “Our Jones.”


End file.
